A Study in Violin
by thesociopathandthepsychopath
Summary: The longest relationships Sherlock Holmes has are the one he has with his Violin, and the one he has with his army doctor, and he can't help but to compare them.


**A Study in Violin **

Willingly, Sherlock Holmes has started 3 relationships in his life: The one he used to have with drugs -violently called off as soon as he wasn't too high to realize he was no longer the owner of his most precious organ, his brain- the one he has with his Violin -he was close to turn into a concert master, but the life of the musician lacked the excitement his job had- and the one with the army doctor whom he shares flat with: John Watson.

He could also state his job was a fourth willing ship he commanded, but his job wasn't just a relationship, his job was his life. His job had brought him everything he has now, so if he should label his job, he wouldn't label it as a mere relationship. It was more, much more.

But then, so were his so called "relationships". When he abused cocaine, he was young, bored, and didn't want anything from this stupid world, filled with ordinary people, stuffed -like Christmas's turkeys- with poison to throw at him. _Freak_. That wouldn't believe him. _Son, those are just shoes, who cares about his shoes, now go to your mummy or something_. Cocaine was his getaway. But then, as the observer he is, it was too obvious he was to choose between his brain or his addiction. He chose his brain, and switched to nicotine patches.

He had begun playing the violin when he was five, maybe six, he has deleted it. His father didn't like him much -not since the day Sherlock outsmarted him- so he automatically gave in when he was asked for permission, all in order to keep the curious, different, a little bit obnoxious little Sherlock away from his sight. Of course, he doesn't remember much of this: Sherlock deleted his father's motivation, and now, Papa Holmes has became a shadow, within the shadow of his lonely childhood. What he does remember is why he wanted to play the violin: to compete with his brother, the cellist.

Mycroft abandoned his cello when he went to the university. Sherlock was never able to put his violin down, ever again.

Then there was the unaccountable, improbable Doctor Watson, ex army doctor, 39 years old, dishwater hair, a walking paradox. John Hamish Watson was the reason he was now sure, he wasn't going to kill himself when he had a midlife crisis -which he was sure was meant to come around the age of 45, if it was delayed, 40, if it was on time-. John Hamish Watson was his only friend, and the only person whom he let as close as he wished. He was inexplicably possessive over him, having -more than once- to recur to his outstanding self control not to bite off the arm of one stupid little flirting woman.

Because out of those three relationships, two could be catalogued as love. _Not likely, utterly dangerous, caring is not an advantage_. It's too late now: His violin, and John Watson. _You are hopelessly in love, and love desperately subject John Hamish Watson -army, short, comfortable, smells of soap, cheap (pleasant) cologne, a little wool and chai. Not suitable, better accept it. Better learn to live with it, instinct says delete._

But that didn't mean he could even begin to explain John Watson, yes, he may lay down an incredibly long, and accurate setlist of things he knew about John, _my John, no one else's_. However how do you explain a paradox to an area of your mind that's not used to sentiment? How do you calm down your thoughts when something you once declared as tedious, boring, unnecessary _when was it Sherlock? When nobody else loved you, or when you decided you are too great for us all? Fuck off Victor_ occupied a whole room in your mind palace, and you wanted to keep it there? _By the fireplace, where it's warm, where the light is. _

His flatmate was very much like a piece for violin. Violin was something safe, something he knew, he could compare John to his Violin to understand without driving himself insane with angst. Most of the times.

His violin helped him think, talking to John helped him think. _You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!_ His violin soothed him, so did John. His violin made beautiful sounds -he was one hell of a violinist after all-, and John was beautiful. _His blonde eyelashes, the way his head falls when he's fighting drowsiness while sitting on a chair_. His violin could be use to make simple melodies, like Tchaikovsky, (his) John was a simple man. His violin could be used to make complex, difficult paradoxical overtures, and allegros, and symphonies, (his) John was a paradox himself.

Because simple didn't mean easy to understand -Tchaikovsky's Opus 19 was very simple, but yet most people ignored it's meaning, they couldn't deduce it- and complex didn't mean not worth the time -Mendelssohn and Paganini weren't easy, neither was Leclair's second sonata, but when you got them, oh when you heard them-. Sherlock himself was a man full of crevices, mazes, and dead ends, but never the less John had the patience, and took the time to know him. No one knew him like John did. He wasn't the most enlightened man, but Sherlock knew he wasn't common. _I am the needle in a haystack, pointy, mostly uncomfortable, he is the four leaved clover hidden in the grass. _

In one thing his violin was different to (his) John: He could make his violin tell any story, he could talk through the strings, yell through the bow all of those things he has suppressed, all those things that lay forgotten in his subconscious. Sherlock Holmes was a very eloquent man, but he couldn't tell John how he felt. How the dopamine running in his veins, dancing like skeletons to a dance macabre, made him want to burst in laughter, how the nor-epinephrin begged him to touch John's arm. He just couldn't.

So he settled to play John's favourite pieces, slipping some insinuating ones of his choice. Giving him looks of determined devotion, and protecting him even if that meant one day he might even be removed from his side. He settled to play _Mendelssohn violin concerto in E minor_ his violin to a tea-drinking, or a blogging John.

Or to no John at all, like in this very moment. A domestic instant, insignificant, but that said it all, or could not say anything at all. This very moment when John was upstairs, probably sleeping. Dreaming of desserts, or maybe of water. Maybe he wasn't even dreaming. And John wasn't, unless Sherlock with his violin, playing a piece he couldn't recognize was a dream. But he doubted so, because John had just woken up from a nightmare. But some people claimed you could dream within a dream.

But instead of the Allegro molto-vivace, silence whittled the melody, and Baker Street was quiet for a moment seeming hours. It was that hour of the night when no cars came and go, when no dogs barked, no kids were being loud. The only thing was silence, and the white noise of the refrigerator.

"Sorry I interrupted. Nightm…" Sherlock cut him mid sentence, holding his bow like once holds a finger to make the other shush.

"Shut up John." There was no need for an Allegro Molto-Vivace _there up, now down, fast, fast, fast, slowasecond, rise, you are my conductor of light_ because it was all in Sherlock's head. He disliked loops, but whether this one went away or stayed was futile information, because Mendelssohn was no longer in notes. "I love you."

John looked at him perplexed.

"I love you John."

There he said it, he repeated it, now he could blame himself for a moment of weakness the rest of his life. John smiled, or didn't he? Was this even real? Neither could tell, it felt real, but then so did dreams. Was it a dream? Mendelssohn should know.

"I love you."

Shouldn't he?


End file.
